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by JinxedSydney
Summary: Set in the future with spoilers for ADWD. A little story I thought of after the last HBO episode after seeing that black dress Sansa was wearing. Rated T for a mention of rape, not descriptive though. Alayne may still have had her innocence but Sansa Stark did not. Melted and scared flesh, hidden behind greasy wisps of long hair falling out of an oversized hood..
1. Chapter 1

Set in the future with spoilers for ADWD; I do not own the characters but wrote this on Word, which is why it is has been written more quickly than someone that prefers DOS (not that I'm naming names…). Enjoy!

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Her beauty had afforded her audience to a beheaded father, bruises and lashings by the enjoyment of her deranged betrothed, a blunt-nosed and misshapen husband, and forced kisses from a man that coveted her dead mother. The sight before her Tully blue eyes now filled her with hope rather than the revulsion that she had once felt. Melted and scared flesh, hidden behind greasy wisps of long hair falling out of an oversized hood, made Sansa catch her breath in rare, unbridled excitement. Careful training allowed her to return her gaze to her intended with a schooled smile. She was proficient at waiting; she would wait.

Harry's attention would have flattered anyone with less experience than Sansa had, for she had her own enraptures turned against her time and time again in her short life. Recently, she had calculated and lavished attention towards her deliverer, uncle, pseudo-father, captor and defiler and it provided her the upper hand. The Vale wept when they discovered their self-proclaimed protector had ended his own life in a warm bathtub. Alayne lamented for her sweet father, practiced tears flowing to hide Sansa's relief. When her intended arrived, their marriage already having been proposed but not accepted, she gladly donned mourning clothes and left her prison. Sweet Robin could fly out of the moondoor for all she cared, his pleas for her to remain falling on deaf ears. Her escape had arrived at her own hands, sequestered sleeping potions worked into food and drink until he slept. Careful slices had been hard, as she would have rather gouged out the eyes of the man that had ruined her body by force while whispering her mother's name. Anything soft in her soul had been lost that night.

Days in the company of Harry were of little consequence to Sansa. Alayne, however, was careful to show her gratitude and admiration once their betrothal had been decided. She had learned that a flashy smile and a lingering hand on his were enough to satisfy the young heir, much to her surprise. Having waded through the opposite sex via trials of disappointment and abuse, Sansa knew that she just needed to bide her time, covertly collect supplies and wait until she could flee, having decided to return to Winterfell no matter the cost. If she lost her life in the effort, it would be better spent than as wife to a man who had his cook serve his meat already cut into small bites.

When they announced a group of Septons as guests for dinner, Alayne couldn't contain her giddiness at meeting such well-travelled men. She had already been seated when they silently filed in and her eyes fell on his well-known scars, barely visible from the shadow of the hood. Under the table, as she smiled at Harry, she pinched her hand to relieve the nervousness; her savior had been delivered.

The Elder Brother spoke for the small group, recounting their journeys and relaying news of the battle-worn land. Alayne listened attentively, Sansa gleaning information like a seasoned spy. Sandor never lifted his eyes during the meal and followed the Elder Brother once they excused themselves for their evening prayers. Dismissing the irony of his career swap, Sansa drummed up an excuse to leave shortly after, desperate to find her silent rescuer.

The sliver of the moon provided no useful light on the grounds as Sansa strained to see which direction the brothers had left. Irritated that she had lost an opportunity to reconnect with the Hound, she stood in the darkness and breathed into her hands to warm them. The hair on the back of her neck stood up just before she heard his lowered, rumbling voice from behind. "Little Bird."

Her breath hitched before she quashed it with a cool reply. "I am no longer a little bird. I am a ruined widow, a pretender and a murderer." Long gone were her beliefs in tales of brave knights that he had mocked her about. She clamped her teeth together, the memory of his dagger at her throat and the fact that she still carried a piece of his cloak with her, like a failed talisman.

"You will always be my Little Bird." His voice was close enough that it tickled her ear from above. It was effortless to lean back into his hulking body, a sigh escaping her before she had time to stop it.

"If I asked to you take me away, like you asked so many years ago…If you wanted me to…" she whispered and then halted.

"Yes." Robed arms encased her slender body from behind.

"I am not the naïve girl you remember. I am not that bird in her cage. I filed my bars until I escaped and I have no song for you."

His answer lingered in silence before he muttered, "You have a song, Little Bird. It is in your nature as sure as your mother's eyes. You've just forgotten how to sing."

She turned and muffled her yell into his scratchy robe. "I will never sing again. All of the songs are lies and men are the biggest lie of all!"

Sandor laughed a curse. "Took you long enough to figure that one out." He lifted a massive hand to stroke her darkened hair. "I will take you home, as I know it's where you are flying to."

She turned her face to rest her cheek on his broad chest. "Yes," she replied, listening to his strong heartbeat. "I want to go home even though it is burned and empty. I have no home and no one to return to, but I want to see the walls of Winterfell before I die." Sansa looked up, barely able to see Sandor's ruined face in the dark, his hood having been pushed back. "If I asked you to kiss me, would you?"

He scoffed, "Nay, Little Bird. Have you made me into a knight from your stories?"

"On the contrary," she answered, reaching up to touch his scars, chasing his face with her fingertips when he flinched. "Your words to me were always in truth, as horrible as they were at the time." In the darkness, the ridges and lines of his burns fascinated her sense of touch as she moved her entire palm to stroke the destroyed side of his face. "More than once, the truth of your words haunted me as I was locked away in the Vale; mocking me, teaching me. Bend down, Ser, so that I may thank you for your wisdom." She felt his face pull tight in anger when she drudged up "Ser."

"No." He captured her wandering hand and pulled it away from his face while stepping back to distance himself.

"Sandor." Sansa employed her lowest voice, the one that enticed Petyr to the bathtub and Harry into her safe betrothal. Although his name was as familiar as her own, it was sounded foreign coming from her lips.

"I will not," he said before cursing as her hand landed again on his chest. "You seemed to have learned the game, and I may have been out of the game for a time now, but I will not be your pawn."

Sansa found that he had backed himself against the wall and pressed her body into his. "Had I to do it over again, I would've chosen you."  
"Liar," he accused, pushing her off. "You were revolted by me!"

"I was." Sansa had no reason to lie to him. "But you were honest and the gods punished me for rejecting you."

"Why are you throwing yourself at me, woman?"

"I have, as you said, learned the game," she bitterly replied, disgusted at herself. She had been humiliated, beaten, forced into marriage, and raped. Alayne may still have had her innocence but Sansa Stark did not. "I did not jest when I said that I was ruined and a murderer. Survival is not…easy."

"Seven hells, woman! I could care less if you had killed Joffrey."

Sansa barked a resentful laugh. "If I could take responsibility for that, I would."

Sandor whistled long and low. "Well, your Imp is still alive, according to the rumors."

"No, not he. It was my good father."

"Ned?"

"No, my other father."

He had moved closer again. "What are you babbling about?"

"My cage, Sandor." Again, his name felt alien but more comfortable. "You did not hear my betrothed call me Alayne?"

"Aye, but I figured it was a pet name, like Little Bird."

"I do not want your pity when I tell you happened after you left. I do not need your pity, so give me none," Sansa began indifferently. She reiterated her story, leaving no disgusting detail or unwanted touch out. He had to understand that his "Little Bird" no longer existed, had died and risen stronger and colder, like the White Walkers from old Nan's stories. "So yes, I learned the game. And I will use the game, any man I want, to get what I need."

Sandor chuckled, "I don't believe it for a rutting second. You are still in there even if you have been defiled or abused or whatever you want to call it. You'll get no sympathy from me, Little Bird, and while I know you tell the truth, you have just gone and jammed yourself so far down in there and are so pissed that it'll be a long while until you find your song again." He had worked his way close enough that he gathered her head to his chest again.

"It is easier to be angry," she whispered truthfully. "I'd rather be angry at the world." True tears that had been denied for months finally spilled onto Sandor's septon robes. "Where did your anger go, Hound?"

He leaned down and planted a chaste but lingering kiss onto her head. She stiffened and held her breath before he answered. "I would be lying if I said that I gave it up long ago. It's always with me. That's how I know you're still in there, Little Bird, just as I buried the Hound deep down."

Somewhere within the walls, she heard her false name being called over and over. Instead of pulling away from the colossal man, she slid her arms around the only other human that knew her secrets and tilted her chin up so that he would hear her whisper, "Never lie to me, Sandor."

"I never have and never will." His lips moved so closely to her own that she stood on her tiptoes to try and capture them. "No, my Little Bird. You're still a lady and deserve more than a Hound."

As she readied a response, Harry frantically called her name from the doorway behind her. Sandor released Sansa, melting into shadows as the search party found their chilled and crying ward. Alayne weakly leaned into Harry's embrace while Sansa cast one last look into the shadows. He was there, she knew, and she prayed to the gods that had abandoned her that he wouldn't do the same to her.


	2. Chapter 2

Let me preface this next chapter; those that subbed thinking that I will lapse into smut, sorry. I'm not HBO. Very minor curse in this chapter…it is Sandor, of course.

Sleep evaded Sansa, mind churning at the events that had just passed. She had never intended to reveal what atrocities had passed to anyone, let alone how she returned Littlefinger's favor in kind. The candle burned low before she lit the next and resumed her path from one side of the room to the other and back again. There was no denying the truth behind the Hound's declaration that she had buried herself deep down; it was less tiring manipulating than crying. Somewhere in the darkness, a rooster crowed and Sansa finally perched on her bed, back to the door, and waiting for the maid to come and light her fire.

The predictable soft knock preceded the door being pushed open. The massive figure that arrived most definitely was not the maid, but the lady of the room stared, exhausted, at the black and cold fireplace and did not notice. "Let my lord know that I will not be down to break my fast this morning. Have a tray delivered," she sternly ordered.

"You can get your own damn tray," he growled before dropping the door bar down.

Sansa whipped her head around, "You can't be in here!" Her old friend modesty gnawed at the leftover bits of her decency.

"Careful, girl. Your Stark is showing," he mocked as he crouched to light her fire. She silently watched him from the edge of her bed, noticing the slowness of his pace, the methodical movements to build the fire and the care to stoke the flames.

"I thought you hated fire," she coldly recounted.

He didn't answer, but used the poker to move a log onto the infant blaze. Sansa regretted her harshness but refused to apologize, choosing to patiently wait through the silent stalemate. "It was cold on the island, so I either learned to build a good fire or I would have lost my toes to the frost." Sandor rocked back to his heels before standing and Sansa saw his face strain in obvious pain.

"You're hurt." Sansa tried to keep her voice as even as possible, with no hint of either malice or consideration.

With a quick shake of the wounded leg, he swiveled so that they faced each other at last. "Aye." No other explanation was offered as he pulled the solitary wooden chair next to the bed, never taking his eyes from hers, nor she from his. Unhurriedly, he lowered himself to the chair, the wood groaning from his weight.

A quiet tap at the door caused one of Sansa's eyebrows to arch. "Yes?" she called out, leaning towards Sandor's burned face.

"M'lady, I'm here for your fire. Unbolt the door, if you please."

"No. I will not need a fire. I am unwell and will not be breaking my fast with my lord. Have a tray delivered." She could see his eyes flicking back and forth between her own, trying to make out her intentions. Sansa wasn't even sure of her own intentions, but she rather enjoyed making the Hound as uncomfortable as she had been so many years ago. Before the young, maid could protest or offer, Sansa added, "And do not sent a maester. I just need to be left alone for now."

"Yes, m'lady," the girl called before her footsteps faded away.

Steering the conversation, Sansa began, "You gave up your life of whoring, killing and terrifying women to hide in septon robes. Ironic." She pulled his rough, brown hood between two fingers in a caress, breaking her gaze to look at the coarse fabric. His muteness prompted her to continue, "Such a far cry from mail and a white cloak. Tell me, did they allow you to keep your sword?" She raised her eyes back up to his, forcing herself to keep her breathing steady and slow as her heart sped up in anticipation to his reaction.

"I cannot change who I was but I can change who I can be for the few years I have left." His response was neither sad or angry, accusing or belittling, only matter-of-fact. "These hands," he continued dropping his gaze to the monstrously sized objects, "Killed with little regard to right or wrong, rich or poor, need or want. I simply obeyed. But it changed. I changed. These hands dig holes in the graveyards or chop wood or draw water now. I still obey but…" His voice had grown so quiet that Sansa found she was holding her breath when he stopped midsentence.

"Yes?" She hadn't meant to let the word slip to show her emotion and internally chastised her slip.

A sigh proceeded his answer. "It doesn't matter." His eyes were still fixated on his hands, as he turned them from back to palm and back again.

Footfall outside of the doorway made Sansa hold up her finger to signal silence. "Alayne? My dear, are you alright?"

Exasperated, Sansa blew out a sigh of discontent and flopped onto her back on the bed. "Yes, my lord. It is a headache and I just need some time to recover." It had been an excuse she used when she needed time away from Harry's overt need to escort her everywhere on the property and sit with her while she sewed, just gawking and grinning at her. "I have no need of a maester, so please spare yourself the time, my lord. All I need is some rest." Her eyes slid closed and she rubbed her hand across her forehead, frustrated with his attentiveness.

"Won't you unbolt the door so that I can build you a fire?"

Sansa balled up her fists and shook them in the air, eliciting a smile from her uninvited but welcome visitor. "No, my lord. I am warm enough under the furs. Now please, I am going to be quiet again as talking is making it worse."

"Yes, I will go. There is a tray here, just outside, if you'd like some wine and cheese. I will be back later to check on you, dear." As he departed, Harry had no way of seeing his betrothed roll her eyes at his sentiments.

His low chuckle made Sansa prop up onto one elbow to look at him again. Shaking his head back and forth, the burns alternately hid and revealed. "The poor bastard is dead gone for you."

"Oh, and I for he," she countered quickly, batting her eyelids. "So once the foolish girl that was led into Kings Landing, naïve to the cruelty of her betrothed. At least I won't have him beaten or his father beheaded." Sansa gave rein to the wrath creeping into her voice, eager to let it permeate and dispense of any romanticisms she may have harbored for the Hound before her. As quickly as her ire stole into heart, she remember his white cloak covering her shoulders and by turns forgave him and then detested him.

"You are still in there," he quietly accused, as if reading her thoughts.

"And you still vex me," she spat back, pushing herself up off of the bed and resuming her course from one side of the room to the other.

"I did no such thing," Sandor retorted, swiveling on the chair to watch her pace. "For the gods' sake, sit down, woman."

She froze in her route, whirling to face the septon. "Do not tell me what to do, Ser." She unknowingly backlit her body with the fire, giving the appearance of a red-haired angel standing in front of the doors to the depths of the seven hells.

Blue eyes narrowed in anger, Sansa felt her chest squeeze as Sandor stood and towered over her; whether in panic or anticipation, she knew not. Forcing herself to swallow when he stepped closer still, she was quite sure he could hear the hammering of her heart in her chest over the quick breaths she managed. Still unspeaking, he bent down to her ear. "I am no Ser," he whispered, enunciating every word individually so that she could not mistake his meaning.

"I know," she managed to squeak out suddenly feeling the power shift out of her possession. "I hate you," she hissed before she moaned, "But I hate myself more." Sansa's head bowed forward, connecting with his scratchy robes. "I have become what I hate. You hide yourself in innocence and I in knowledge and forgery. Tell me, Hound, which of us is more horrible? I used to believe, used to dream that you had honor hidden beneath your white cloak. In the darkest times, I used to think," she admitted looking at the haggard face above hers, "that under these burns, you had been my knight and I had dismissed you for these." Sandor flinched again when she brought up her hand to the ridges and melted skin.

"You were stupid to think I had any honor, Little Bird," he rasped. "I still have none."

"I disagree."

"You would because you still are dreaming of stupid knights when all they did was beat and rape you."

His words caused her to flinch that time. "Get out." She gritted her teeth try to force the tears to stop, but turned towards the fire when they spilled over. "Please, go," she begged instead.

The door bar was lifted and dropped with a loud thump. "See, girl, you are still down in there." As the door pulled shut, Sansa melted into a puddle on the floor, tears refusing to stop no matter how much she despised the Hound at that moment.

Hours later, when she had been escorted into the main hall for dinner, she found herself opposite of the man that simultaneously lifted and crushed her soul. Completely ignoring his presence was easy, but denying herself a glance was not. Sansa was neither shocked nor revolted that he was looking directly at her, in as much that she was neither shocked nor revolted that she had already forgiven him for his honesty. A slight tip of her glass to him and she was rewarded with a lop-sided grin that quickly disappeared under the cloak. Beneath the table, her thumb rubbed over her favorite handkerchief, a wolf stitched into a thick white patch edged in green flames. Glancing back at the now hooded man, she knew that his honor was buried even deeper than her fears.


	3. Chapter 3

I am sorry for the delay in posting this! Caution...fluff ahead!

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"Have you gold or silver?" His figure completely obscured in the shadows of the wall as she retired to her room later that evening, Sandor's hushed question caught Sansa by surprise. The guards would have bolted towards their lady's frightened scream had Sandor not already predicted her reaction and silenced it with his hand.

"Are you out of your mind?" she hissed when he lowered his hand. "The guards could have heard me!"

"But they didn't because I knew you were going to scream, so I shut you up," he chided, wagging his finger in front of her nose. "Besides, I've just proved that they are worthless. I could've cut your throat wide open and vanished before they found you. No one would suspect a septon."

"You're too kind to bring that to my attention," she bantered, continuing her path towards her room. Sandor shadowed her until he stepped ahead, pushed her door open and allowed her passage. "A true gentleman hides under those burns," she admonished, knowing it would raise his ire. He shoved the door closed a bit harder than necessary and dropped the door bar into place. "Do you mean to help me undress," she dared when he turned around.

"Oh, shut up," he barked, staying rooted to the spot he held in front of the door.

Sansa offered up a rare, genuine smile. "It's alright, I won't embarrass you. I will change later."

"Seven hells, woman," he cursed. "You couldn't embarrass me if you tried."

Her eyes narrowed in defiance. "Really?" She found herself actually debating whether or not she would disrobe in front of the man who had stolen a kiss after forcing a song before deciding against it. Truly, she only would do it for sport and he was not one to meddle with; it wasn't his reaction that she mistrusted, but her own. Hadn't she imagined a different ending to that night many times over?

"Yours would be another naked body and I've seen plenty in life and death and I don't need to see yours," he said irritated, limping towards the already roaring fire. A cold wind had howled in during the dinner and Sansa was sure it would snow. She joined Sandor in front of the blaze, lapsing into silence, rough septon robes and black mourning dress inches from each other. A few minutes later, Sansa realized that either one or the both of them had leaned in, causing his hand to brush her arm.

Sandor cleared his throat, causing Sansa to flinch. "Do you have a plan to get yourself to Winterfell, jumpy Little Bird?"

Sansa continued to look into the fire, contemplating her answer. Following Lord Baelish's demise, Sansa had searched his room for any hidden coin or gems that she could steal. Working quickly, she found several small pouches with small deposits stowed under the bed, mattress, desk, chair and dresser. She knew that somewhere, there was a much larger amount, including her aunt Lysa's jewelry, but she could not risk taking it if Lothor Brune knew its whereabouts. Content with her pillage, she had hidden it in her belongings. "I was only able to secure a few coins and some jewelry," she admitted. "I had hoped that they found my good father's coins or Aunt Lysa's jewels, but they were somehow overlooked. A minor detail that I forgot, learning where his stash was, before he went to sleep...forever…thank the gods and my help to speed it along." Fury stirred in her heart and bile in her throat when Littlefinger's name was ever brought up. Unbidden, her entire body broke into a hard shiver and then quickly stopped.

Sandor stepped back and brought the chair, motioning for her to sit in front of the fire. "You'll need more than a few coins and jewels to get you home." He leaned against the wall opposite of Sansa, as if to physically distance himself from her. "The brothers are leaving in the morning, after they break their fast."

Carefully, Sansa kept her tone even and asked if he would leave with them.

"I haven't decided." He paused, avoiding her eyes. "Why do you want to go home, Sansa? There's nothing there. It's burned and sacked," he asked, exasperated.

"You said my name," she breathed.

His face twisted, confused. "What?"

"You said my name," she repeated in a whisper. "You've never said my name before." She stood but did not approach the now defensive man who scowled at her. "In all of my time at Kings Landing, even after you found me leaving the godswood or pushed your dagger in my throat, you never once called me by my name." Sansa stopped and offered a small smile. "You should be careful, Hound, your Clegane is showing."

He swore at her, eyes unexpectedly bright with rage. "I don't care what I called you. Quit trying to twist me into some damn knight from your silly tales." She was honestly nervous when he stepped closer, towering over her. "And if my Clegane is showing, I'd beat and rape you myself, _Sansa_," he growled, emphatically adding her name to drive home his point. "So don't you ever say that again. Ever."

Sansa pushed her chin up, shoving down the rising fear. "I've known monsters and demons my entire life. I've been broken and torn apart, left in the darkness to die. You don't frighten me."

"I should." She had not even realized that he had pressed a dagger to her bare throat until it was pinching her skin. His gray eyes flicked back and forth from one blue eye to the next.

The first verse of the Mother's song softly spilled from her lips again while her hand moved to caress his ruined face. Sansa toed the line of insanity, provoking the man that had lost count of all he killed. "Kill me now, Sandor, if you will not take me. I'd rather die at your hands than anyone else." She moved her free hand over his own and steadied the blade against her neck before he lowered it. "I need to go home. I am stronger within the walls of Winterfell, a true daughter of the North. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell…I am all that is left. I must go home."

He swallowed hard before replying, "You will. I'll take you. Bugger it all." He limped to her bed and plopped down, the bed groaning under his frame. Without prompting, his story tumbled out; the Brotherhood, kidnapping Arya, the Red Wedding, her sister leaving him on the road and refusing to kill him, being found by the Elder Brother, and forfeiting the Hound's life for a life of silence as a gravedigger, ironic penance to the gods he didn't even believe in. Unintentionally, Sansa gravitated towards him while he spoke, after pouring a cup of wine and returning to sit next to him on the bed, inching closer with each pause. He ended his tale with a string of curses and turned, her face close to his, each feeling the other's breath on their lips. "I...I…" he stammered, leaning his body away from hers before abruptly standing and then fidgeting with the fire.

"Every night after you left," Sansa called from her perch on the bed, "I regretted not going with you. I was too scared, too naïve, too ridiculous; I was the little bird they had taught me to be, just like you said." She hesitated until Sandor turned to face her from his place near the fire. "You promised to keep me safe and the gods served me in kind." Sansa refused to look away from him, her blue eyes bright and void of any tears.

"I told you that I'd keep you safe and that no one would hurt you again or I'd kill them." The small dagger danced at his side as his fingers twisted it round and round. "You can only take what you can carry in a saddlebag. Stranger is in the stables. Can you steal some food?"

"No, but I can ask the maid to make me a pack to take." She smiled when his good eyebrow questioningly rose. She explained that the maid had helped dye her hair and figured out Sansa's identity some months ago. The maid's family was from the North, Hornwood, and had served as bannermen under her father and Robb. Sansa's Tully features were not as easily hidden as her dead, good father had hoped.

"Good," he gruffly replied. He opened his mouth to speak and then shut it again, as if wrestling with his own words. A quick flick of the wrist and the dagger was embedded into the door, the punctuation to his internal war. "Ask for a firestone. I've got to go find a sword worth stealing."

Before he could retrieve his dagger, Sansa placed her hand on his arm when he marched towards the door. He stopped, his eyes dropping to her hand as if it magically anchored him in place. "Thank you, Sandor. You may be no true knight, but you have saved me all the same. You are _my_ knight. Even if you don't believe in them, I believe in you." He didn't argue, his gaze following as her fingers trailed down the septon robes to rest on his hand. "I will gather my things and see you in the stables then, Ser?" She combated his frown with a smile, rose on her tip toes and pressed a chaste kiss on his good cheek, knowing the other side would not be a wise decision.

"Aye." He disappeared quietly and Sansa made quick work of her own chores. She was able to feign illness to fetch her maid to the kitchen, who gladly and tearfully packed all that she could, along with two skins of wine. With a quick hug, Sansa returned to her room, clutching her stomach as she passed the guards. She only packed her pilfered stash of money, gems, a spare dress and small clothes and the silver hairbrush her mother had given her upon her departure from Winterfell. A quick search through her cedar chest and she was ready, layering everything under her heaviest cloak.

"Ah, it is snowing! I believe a turnabout the yard will alleviate what ails me," she explained to the sleepy sentries. "I will probably return by the door near the dining hall," Sansa added to keep them from looking for her, flashing a smile then turning it into a painful sounding moan for effect.

For half a moment she thought he had failed her, as she turned the corner to the stables and the pale moonlight revealed only shadows, devoid of movement. A silhouette gradually emerged from the forest edge and Sansa ran towards her deliverer, grateful that the Waynwoods did not live in a walled fort or keep. He held a finger to his lips to silence any greeting, grabbed her hand with his other and pulled her into the shadows towards the waiting horse.

After seating first himself in the saddle, Sandor hauled her up to sit behind him on a bedroll lashed to the saddle. Sansa snaked her arms around his waist. When they lurched forward, one of his enormous hands held hers fast so that she didn't fall. She held her breath when a branch would break under Stranger's hooves and smashed her eyes closed, wordlessly praying to the gods that had abandoned her years ago.

Her face pressed into his robes, hood drawn to keep the snow from her head, Sansa silently watched the moonlit forest and rock formations pass. The gray stones reminded her of Winterfell's walls and she smiled, pulling her body tighter against Sandor's.

"Are you alright?" He had released the reins with one hand and grasped hers at his waist again.

"For the first time in years, yes. Perfectly." His body hummed a chuckle. "I am going home."

"Aye, Little Bird, you're going home to a burned out and ruined castle, but I'll get you there."

"I always knew that you would." His laugh echoed off of the rocks and disappeared into the dark forest.


	4. Chapter 4

This is not a disclaimer, just to clarify…in case anyone was looking for one.

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As the sky had slowly spun from darkness to dawn, Sansa had been lulled to sleep by the sway of the saddle, waking only when the horse stomped his hoof impatiently, reins holding him from advancing. Snow was still falling while the black horse danced left and then right, chomping at his bit. Sandor stood in the stirrups and pulled his hood off, craning to look behind them. Sansa desperately grabbed onto his hips through his robes when Stranger suddenly hopped to the side, pulling the giant man back down to his saddle.

"I'm sorry," she whispered fervently when he turned around, looking positively enraged. He settled back into the saddle, massaging his bad leg. "I need to tell you," she said quietly, "that if you are headed towards Heart's Home, you will not find a warm welcome for us there. Lord Corbray loyalties were last purchased by my good father for gold and promises. His men would most certainly return me to my betrothed."

"Gulltown would be the quickest, but everyone will guess that we would go there. We could make for Old Anchor or skirt the shores to Wickenden," he mused out loud while Stranger was given his head and slowly plodded aimlessly through the snow.

"I'm at your leisure," Sansa chirped.

Sandor groaned, rubbing his leg again. "We've got to get somewhere soon. This storm is coming in faster than I thought." He pulled his hood back on, spurring Stranger forward. "I'll even take a damned cave," he grumbled.

For hours while they twisted through the woods and steep terrain, snow creeping further and further up Stranger's legs. When Sandor had refused the eel jerky Sansa had offered, she denied herself the same. His mood progressively darkened as the day continued and his leg pain had caused him to alternately flex his gloved fists, rub the offending wound and murmur a line of curses.

Theories of dying in the snow had blossomed in her mind when the snow drift had reached Stranger's knees until Sandor pointed out a cave. Sansa dismounted and immediately went to work gathering low-hanging, dead branches while Sandor checked the cave for unwanted visitors. A pile of ashes revealed that it had obviously been used by a traveler some time ago, but it was otherwise clear and very small. With a fire started, the large entrance barely had enough room for the hefty stallion, leaving the other two occupants sitting leg to leg, backs against the wall.

"Cozy." Sansa tried to make light of the situation, but soon realized that Sandor's pain was overwhelming him, eyes glazed and practically pawing at his trousers to alleviate the discomfort. "The heat should help," she offered. Shuffling in the small space, Sansa carefully kept the fire stoked, occasionally pushing past the black horse to retrieve more wood in the fleeting daylight.

When the winds picked up, Sandor had Sansa blanket Stranger to keep the beast warm and act as a door. The smoke rose along the roof of the cave towards the opening and the clever horse kept his head lowered. Her stomach rumbled a protest so loudly that Sandor suggested a meal. They ate in silence, Sansa watching her companion to try and figure out what was going through his head, concluding that she would go on foot alone if he turned back.

Later, when the world outside had fallen dark and they lay side by side on their bedrolls, knees bent for lack of space, Sansa declared, "Did you know that my bethrothed has already fathered children and that his family has married into the Freys, the same ones that slaughtered my mother and brother?" There were so many things left unsaid that she was desperate to engage him in conversation, no matter how one-sided. She felt him move next to her, blatantly touching her hand with his own. Sansa caught her breath and lay stone still.

"I can't believe you still have this old thing." His hand left hers and she felt Sandor poke at her makeshift pillow.

She turned towards him, his eyes shifting back to the cave ceiling, careful not to make eye contact. "This _old thing_ was my reminder of what I gave up. It inspired me to make the hard decisions, face uncertainty and be brave in my darkest hours." Sansa's hand stroked the worn white cloak, blood having turned black years before. The feel of the fabric on her skin centered her; many nights she reached deep into her cedar chest just to touch the Kingsguard cloak after Petyr had passionately cried out for Catelyn.

The dying flames in the cave made Sandor's face appear more horrifying, as if the scars were melting. "I was taught that with my mother's beauty and Littlefinger's wits, I could make my own world," Sansa continued, recalling her good father's eyes close, unable to fight the sweet sleep laced wine. "So I did just that: began to maneuver my own destiny. I am finally free of Joffrey, the Lannisters, and Littlefinger. I'm done been traded, thrown away and used and I'll have no more of it, thank you."

"You are still married to the Imp." Sansa had never heard his voice sound so small.

"I am, if he lives. As much as his person repulsed me, he was kind and considerate and never forced me into anything, not even our marriage." Sansa realized that she actually respected Tyrion for that bit of decency. "However," she persisted, with a smile dancing on her lips, "you were the first to put your mantle on my shoulders."

His raspy laughter filled the small void of the cave. "Bugger that. Go to sleep now, Little Bird. Hopefully this storm will pass and we will be on our way to Old Anchor in the morning." Noisily, he turned his back to her but scooted so that they were touching. Sansa turned her body towards the fire, moving back until her spine met with his.

"Good night, Sandor."

"Good night, Little Bird." Within minutes, his snoring started and even in her exhaustion, Sansa could not fall asleep through the noise. She bounced herself against the solid length of his back to see if it would shift him and cease the snoring. Suddenly, he rolled over, almost crushing her; a giant arm landing across her shoulders and protectively pulling her closer, unconsciously pushing his head down across the top of her own. Although uncomfortable from the weight of his arm pressing her shoulder into the ground, Sansa was powerless to move. His breathing deepened and Sansa felt herself drift to sleep.

She could smell and taste the ashes before she opened her eyes. Struggling to sit, the soot in the air caused her to cough violently, her eyes filling with tears after realizing that she was back in her room at Winterfell. Lady lay silently next to Sansa's bed, her eyes closed in sleep. Sansa reached to stroke the grey fur and watched, horrified, as her direwolf crumbled into a heap of ashes. "Lady," Sansa sobbed, "I am so sorry!" Her fingers longingly carded through the powder, seeking forgiveness.

A sigh escaped her lips before she closed her heavy eyelids again. She snapped them open again, hearing a low growl, finding herself standing in the godswood before the heart tree. When yellow eyes peered at her from behind a tree, Sansa recognized them and called out to Grey Wind. The direwolf slowly emerged, then rose on his back legs until Sansa realized it wasn't Grey Wind, but Robb with Grey Wind's head sewn to his shoulders. Trying to back away, she slipped on the snow and fell, finding that the snow had turned to ashes. Robb approached, Grey Wind's eyes boring into Sansa's.

"Queen of the North." Robb spoke, although his wolf's head didn't move. Terrified, Sansa found that she couldn't reply, as if her lips were sealed shut. "Sansa, Queen of the North," he repeated.

She shook her head back and forth at him and felt something heavy biting into her scalp, through her hair. Sansa's tentatively reached for her head and stiffened when she felt an icy, metal crown with tall spikes that pricked her finger when she touched the tip. She pulled her bloody finger down and watched as a drop of blood splashed into the ashes.

"Family, duty, honor," Robb reminded her. When she looked back at her dead brother, his handsome face was returned with a sad smile as he offered his hand to help her up. "Queen of the North, arise."

Sansa put her small hand into her brother's cold, calloused one. Their twin blue eyes met before he embraced her in a hug. Sansa wept with sorrow for her dead brother and king. He stroked her hair before whispering, "Winter is coming…the North will never forget." She nodded into his black cloak, his arms flexing and tightening their embrace until he was squeezing the air from her lungs.

"Robb!" Her lips unsealed, Sansa writhed against his hold. "Please, Robb, let go!"

"Queen of the North!" he roared into her ears. "Family! Duty! Honor!"

"Let me go!" His grip tightened, Sansa barely able to take in more than a small gasp. Bursts of light crowded her vision; the crown burrowed into her skin, blood running down her face.

"Winter is coming, Lady Stark, Queen of the North. The North will never forget." A deep growl rumbled in her ears and Sansa's last sight was Grey Wind's yellow eyes staring at her before she lost consciousness.

She woke with a jerk to her body, staring into the embers of the dying fire. Crawling out from under Sandor's arm, Sansa sat and stretched her aching body before rekindling the fire. Sleep evaded her after the dream as she tried to wrap her head around the meaning of it. She sat back down on her bedroll, leaning against the slumbering giant's stomach, smiling as it pushed her back and forth with his breathing.

Fatigue's gentle fingers pulled at the eldest living Stark while she unbraided her faded, dyed hair. For years Sansa had hoped that she would see Winterfell again, hoping when praying to the gods became useless and she learned that life was not a song. The man she rested against was the only one she trusted with her life; his promise to kill for her was as certain as the copper hair that rejected the black dye.

Reclining once more, Sansa studied Sandor's face as he slept. She remembered the day he had dabbed her bleeding lip, when he had thrown his cloak around her shoulders after refusing to beat her and his crassness when he recounted the women he had raped and killed. Long ago, Sansa had wondered what contradictions were hidden behind the anger. Here before her was the man, Sandor Clegane, the Hound long dead and buried on the Saltpans, the gravedigger having lived on. The relaxed lips just beyond her own, the same ones that had stolen a kiss, tempted her to steal her own. When she finally worked up the courage and followed through, he slept on, uninterrupted.


	5. Chapter 5

Moving quickly, Sansa tied a warm rock to Sandor's leg before he could protest. Slipping the chilled rock under her cloak and into the top of her bodice, she clenched her teeth as the stone settled against her skin. It rested with the other two flat, fist-sized rocks that she had gathered from the cave following their explosive argument.

"You cut my pants! I'll freeze to death!" Sandor's deafening bellow even caused Stranger to jump.

"You won't. Sit still and I will show you how you can keep the pain from your leg, since we don't have any milk of the poppy." Sansa had torn a swath of her underskirt off to fashion a bandage, which Sandor was having none of.

"Get off!" He tried to stand but was stopped when his head collided with the ceiling, eliciting a string of curses before he sat back down. "Gods, woman…get on with it." Defeated and cradling his injured head, he glared as she confidently approached the damaged trousers.

Winding a hot rock from the edge of the fire into the cloth, Sansa explained that the warmth would help keep the ache at bay. She described that her body heat would allow her to warm rocks as they rode and she would change them without even having to dismount. Sandor hissed as she secured the first rock to the gnarled wound; she swallowed the temptation to ask how he received it. He garbled something about cutting a man's pants while he slept and treachery.

The day slowly progressed; although the snow had ceased, the temperatures remained frigid. Stranger diligently plowed through the snowdrifts while Sansa persistently changed stones. A small farmhouse near the headwaters of the river leading to Old Anchor allowed them a night in the large barn in exchange for two small coins. Sansa guessed that the farmer was more swayed by the size of her escort than the request itself.

Provided with a small kettle and wood for fuel, the pair carefully built a small fire in the center of the stone building, away from the hay and animals. Within her mind, Sansa laughed at their predicament; a barn as their shelter, melting snow for water and boiling on jerky for a meal. Smile still playing on her lips, Sandor spoke for the first time since their squabble.

"What are you smiling about? It's freezing, we're in a barn and we may starve before we get to Old Anchor."

She sarcastically laughed, "All hail the Queen of the North," before shoving another log onto the fire. Modestly, she reached under her cloak and produced the warming stones, one after the other, to line up along the edge of the fire. "All men beware, this lady carries stones in her corset."

Sandor barked a laugh then added, "Thank you, they did help."

"Do my ears deceive me? Is that…is that gratitude I hear from the man who was sure that I was treacherously cutting open his pants in a plot to kill him?" She giggled and threw a hard biscuit to her companion.

"I won't say it again, Little Bird, but those rocks did help. Milk of the poppy is lovely for sleeping and forgetting but rocks will do."

Sansa didn't miss the hitch in his voice. "Who or what did you forget with your milk of the poppy?"

"Doesn't matter now," he replied, gruffly. He sat, waiting for the broth to dip his biscuit into, eyes looking everywhere but at Sansa.

As she bent over to tend the kettle, waves of darkened, copper hair parted at the base of her head, obscuring her face. Concentrating on the boiling jerky, she hadn't even heard Sandor move closer. Instantaneous panic registered as an exploring, calloused finger touched the length of her exposed neck. Sansa abruptly raised up, her tresses once again covering the back of her neck.

"He did this." Neither a request for information nor a question, the growled statement hung in the air. Sansa looked up to the rafters, furiously trying to blink back the tears, grateful the accuser stood behind her.

"You were never meant to see that," she quietly offered.

"Did he?!" The fury in Sandor's voice caused her to recoil and slip a hand under her hair to cover the offending neck. "Tell me," he rumbled in a vehement, low voice, "before I break something."

With a steady voice, she requested that he calm down first and was surprised by his silence. A cautionary glance over her shoulder showed the man standing, chest pumping with heavy breaths and fists clenched tightly at his sides. When she motioned for him to sit, Sandor refused. Sansa methodically sat down on her bedroll, smoothing out her skirts before relaying her tale of Littlefinger's "encouragement" with a riding whip when she would resist his advances. It was easier exposing the truth while staring at the floor rather that chancing a glimpse of the gray eyes etched in rage.

A pregnant pause filled the barn when she concluded, both parties refusing to move; Sansa from her misery of reliving the account, Sandor from his anxiety that he would explode in hatred. Her eyes still cast downward, she saw his feet turn away and hated herself for burdening him.

"I wish I could kill him again." His admission was so simple, filled with unadulterated hatred, that Sansa burst out laughing. Sandor turned on his heel to glare at her and she smiled, adoring the brutality of his resentment. She had no doubt that had Petyr's lifeless body been nearby, it would have been beaten and set afire after being torn limb from limb. His anguish evident, he muttered, "I should've taken you that night, tied you up and taken you away."

"Don't you ever say that!" she shouted, standing and advancing towards Sandor. Sansa's wrath at his retort even caught herself a bit off guard, but it bolstered her interjection. "You gave me the choice…I made it. You don't get to blame yourself for this! This is my doing, not yours. Besides," she soothed, "I _did_ kill him and that is my doing too. You can't have all of the glory."

Lips pressed tightly together, his eyelids closed as he sighed. Sansa predicted his tormented words. "I would have kept you safe."

Likewise, she inevitably extended her hand to trace his burns, her touchstone. "And the Hound would not have died so that the gravedigger could live on. And that," she assured, looking directly into his eyes, "would have been more unfortunate than either of our scars." Sansa felt her heart stir and chastised herself. No one would marry her for anything other than the rights to Winterfell and she would marry only for family, duty and honor, bound by heritage. She had no right to care for a murderer turned septon, though she wished for nothing more than for the man to see himself as she did…so much more than a dog.

Cooled broth consumed in expected quiet, the two hunkered down next to the fire and tried to sleep. Sandor didn't turn his back to her as she supposed he would but awkwardly kept his arm from naturally surrounding her.

Sansa felt the tendrils of her hair being brushed aside. As tenderly as she remembered, Sandor's fingers traced the thin, angry red scars across her small neck and then tracked back and forth across the neckline of the back of her dress. Relaxed and protected, Sansa eased into sleep.

Robb came to her again in the godswood, demanding her submission. She relented as the metal crown pierced her scalp. "I am coming, Robb! I didn't forget." Ashes fell like hellish snowflakes, covering the ground.

"Queen of the North," Robb declared. "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell."

"I am strong because I have been weak," Sansa boldly replied. "I am fearless because I have been afraid. I am wise because I have been foolish. Winter is coming."

Her brother led her to the Great Hall. Horrified, Sansa felt herself being pushed forward to a throne on the far end of the room, the Iron Throne. "No, no, no, no," she sobbed, heart racing, believing that Joffrey would appear and have her beaten. Forced to her knees by her dead brother in front of the Iron Throne in Winterfell's Great Hall, Sansa's head hung in defeat while she waited for her dress to be destroyed and the thrashing to begin. How was she to be Queen of the North when she couldn't even save herself?

A low whine came just before something pushed her arm from behind. Turning, a large gray hound pressed her into standing. Suddenly, she found the hound as her only company, ashes silently covering the floor and throne of swords. The wiry haired dog pushed her with its head towards the throne, nearly toppling her. When she resisted, the dog tenderly fastened his teeth to her hand and pulled her towards her destiny.

A thunderous voice caused Sansa to clap her hands to her ears. "Family! Duty! Honor!" The echoing speech gained in volume until she cried out in pain. The last thing she saw was the dog clamping its jaws around her arm and jarring it back and forth.

"Wake up, girl!" Sansa snapped her eyes open, wild and frantic to figure out where she was; the barn was nearly dark as the fire had died down. Sandor had her by the arm and was shaking it. "Wake up! If you keep screaming, they will think I am murdering you." He seemed as nearly agitated as she felt, relieved that she had finally found her way to consciousness.

An unhurried smile spread across her lips. "You won't hurt me," she said, sleep keeping her voice low.

"If you keep screaming like that and waking me up, I just may," he grumped, laying back down and tossing his arm around her waist before hauling her in close.

* * *

Enjoy my songs that inspire the chapters ~ JS :

"Panic Switch" - Silversun Pickups

"Stripped" - Shiny Toy Guns (Depeche Mode cover)


	6. Chapter 6

Old Anchor had taken them over a week to reach due to the snowstorms. Untrusting and nervous, citizens of the port town kept a wide berth from the hulking man and the gigantic, black stallion, assuming that the cloaked woman was probably a slave or an unwilling wife. Sansa remained mute, cloaked head bowed in mock submission, to further their ruse.

House Melcolm soldiers took slight interest in the pair, preferring to huddle close to their warming fires as the snow began to fall in earnest again. Descending to the docks, they were able to secure passage on _Wolf Lady_, ironically, to set sail to White Harbor three days after their arrival, exhausting all of the jewels Sansa had stolen. While residents and patrons alike protested the prevailing winter, Sansa heard her house words echo through her mind, "Winter is coming. Family, duty, honor." Plagued by nightmares every night, she had preferred to keep watch during the night and nodded off in the saddle on their journey, awkwardly resting on Sandor's back during the daytime hours.

Confined to a cheap inn with the few coins they had left, Sansa chose not to question the handfuls of money Sandor deposited on the bed late in the afternoon of their first night, rather expressed her gratitude with a small kiss to his ruined cheek. With the extra silvers, they filled their bellies with warm stew and wine before returning to their room.

Sansa spun away when Sandor, lenient from several cups of wine, suddenly decided to disrobe before succumbing to sleep. Stifling a giggle, she heard the straw pallet shuffle before the giant man groaned, followed by heavy breathing. Sansa dared a quick glance, appreciative Sandor had pulled the blanket over his body, clothes abandoned in a heap. After retrieving a bucket and board from the innkeep, Sansa quietly scrubbed out their clothes, stripping down to her own smallclothes and winding a blanket protectively around her body. Easing herself onto the pallet and making sure there was a proper blanket barrier between their bodies, she relaxed into layers against her comfortable protector. With a grunt, Sandor rolled over and habitually tucked Sansa under his arm. She examined the scarred, naked arm, tracing their patterns with her eyes after Sandor's deep breathing signaled his descent into slumber.

As her own eyelids grew heavy and nightmares lurked, Sansa inched her way out from under Sandor's arm, intending to repair his trousers by the fireplace having obtained a needle and thread during her earlier chore. Clean laundry was suspended from a cord from one end of the room to the other, dark water spots marking the wood floors. Instead of sitting close to the fire, Sansa ensured Sandor was completely asleep before unfolding her wet, hidden-in-a-blanket spare smallclothes in front of the fire to dry. In a relapse of modesty, Sansa could not bring herself to hang them on display for Sandor to see.

Finally settled in front of the fire, Sansa took the snoring man's breeches and worked small stitches in the leg. Absorbed in the final knots her work, the flames grew low and she realized there was no more fuel. Hunched over and straining to see, she didn't even notice the blanket-draped, hairy foot next to her until she was startled by it. "Oh, seven hells, you scared me," she vehemently whispered, refusing to look up at the obviously half naked man standing over her.

"Little birds don't swear," he grumbled.

Sansa chuckled, blue eyes fixated on the tiny sutures, grateful the low light didn't reveal the crimson color that had flooded her face and neck, which grew even hotter when she realized her smallclothes were spread out next to her. Frantically pulling her private wardrobe under her leg, she stammered, "I, ah, yes. I thought I'd repair these before you woke." A quick nod of her head and a curtain of hair hid her discomfort. Sandor had been nothing other than gruff and sour at her since their travels, her only respite derived when his arm proprietorially pinned her in place each night. Any notion of Sandor's desire for Sansa, rooted in the memory of his stolen kiss and the daily proximity of his cloak, had been firmly dismissed by his indifferent treatment. Sansa recognized that she was merely a responsibility that he took upon his chivalrous, albeit buried, shoulders.

"What were you humming?" Sandor pulled the lone chair next to the lady on the floor. Even from her limited vision, Sansa could see that he had wrapped the blanket around his waist, scarred chest brazenly bared. His hand moved across her shoulder, rough fingers brushing her smooth skin as he tugged the blanket up to cover her exposed scars. Yielding to her notions, Sansa laid her cheek over his hand, barely capturing it before Sandor snatched it back. "What are you doing, woman?" he demanded.

Turning her face to his, Sansa's tears dammed. "Nothing, Ser. I'm a stupid girl." Refusing to break his gaze, Sansa blinked her tears into submission. She had just been served her definitive rejection after supposing his silence for thoughtfulness along their journey, his protective arm never affected by the adoration she had anticipated. Days of imagining Sandor's feelings for her, assuming they had been pushed aside for duty, blossomed into rancid bitterness in her soul. Not even a dog would love her.

"The years I wasted," she murmured before she could stop herself. Returning her gaze to the low embers, Sansa anticipated Sandor's muteness and continued. "Every time Petyr touched me, I thought of you. I thought of you running your sword through his belly, through his eye, taking off his head with a single swing. In my mind, you saved me over and over."

"I am not some gods damned knight from your stories!" Frustrated, Sandor stood and knocked the chair over. "Littlefinger raped you over and over and I wasn't there! So quit trying to pretend I'm your savior!" Swearing, he reached down and yanked the repaired trousers from her grip.

"In my heart, in my bones, I swear you are a good man Sandor Clegane." Sansa's voice faintly shook with her proclamation. "Deny me. Reject me. You will always have your redemption in me no matter how vile you claim you are. Your demons only have different faces than mine."

Barking at her to shut up, Sandor shoved past the hanging laundry and plopped onto the pallet. Irately, he dressed and stormed out of the room. Nearby, a rooster called out the nearing dawn just as the slamming front door of the inn rattled the shutters. Sansa tested the clothing on the line, pulling on her gray dress since it was the driest, before collapsing onto the bed.

It felt like she had just closed her eyes when a giant hand gently shook her. "Wake up and eat, now." To Sansa's lethargic ears, Sandor almost sounded apologetic. He had deposited a tray of hard cheese and dark bread with a cup of milk next to the pallet before moving to relight the extinguished fire.

After croaking her inquiry to the time, Sansa was astonished to learn that it was half past noon. She offered her apologies for sleeping so late into the day and was rebuked with a mock. "What else do you have to do to pass the time until we sail?" Pride wounded, she finished the meager meal in silence.

A soft knock at the door preceded a lady's call, "Excuse me, m'lord, m'lady?"

Sandor signaled for Sansa to remain on the bed while he unsheathed his sword as he approached the door. "What do you want?" he hollered.

The door violently burst open, three blue cloaked Melcolm soldiers yelling for Sandor's arrest for Lady Alayne Stone's kidnapping. Steel blades flashed then kissed in a furious pace, the two younger soldiers engaging Sandor while the other pursued the treasure, who had jumped from the bed and towards the fire, armed with her own small dagger. She saw one of the soldiers collapse into a heap in the doorway.

Gracefully spinning through the laundry towards Sandor in an elaborate attempt to keep away from the soldier, Sansa gasped when pain erupted between her ribs. Clutching her hand near the pain, she noticed the crimson stain promptly extend past her fingers before looking to Sandor, who had just impaled the remaining guard near the door.

"Sandor?" she managed to pant before she dropped to her knees near the pallet. She watched, as if in a dream, while Sandor screamed and removed the head of her pursuing guard with one hasty stroke.

"No, no, no," he begged over and over when he swooped her up into his arms and deposited her onto the pallet. Sansa coughed and gagged before he propped her up a bit, furiously swiping his palm at what she knew was blood. "I'll go get a maester," he offered, starting to stand but restrained by his lady's hand on his own.

"It'll do no good, you know," Sansa wheezed, feeling cold and drained. "I'd rather not be alone when I go."

Her knight pressed his own hand onto her own that covered the fatal wound, causing her to gasp in pain and he to roar in agony. "You're strong," Sandor lied, tears building in his own grey eyes. "My beautiful Little Bird, you can do this."

Sansa's body relaxed, unbidden, and through the pain, she was both relieved and sorrowful. "I will never see Winterfell. But I died trying!" she whispered triumphantly.

"Aye, lass. You flew away and found your song, Queen of the North." Sandor had lowered his face to hers and brushed her lips with his own.

Her own tears spilling, Sansa defiantly chastised him. "Don't kiss me out of pity because I am dying."

Sandor pulled her up to him, Sansa crying out in pain. Through the veil of darkened Stark hair, he admitted his devotion while stroking the scars along her neckline. "I'd die a thousand times to hear you say that," she acknowledged, using what little energy she had left to stroke his wrecked cheek. Sansa was glad to know that she was loved in the end as her eyelids felt heavy and tugged close.

"No, stay awake!" Sandor demanded, causing Sansa's eyes to snap back open.

"I cannot," she admitted. Her face twisted in pain, but she strained to make her last thoughts coherent. "Never leave me. Take me with you. And kiss me…kiss me like you love me."

Deftly, Sandor joined their lips while his body shook with sobs. Sansa hated herself for causing him misery but reveled in his tender caress. Burying his face into her hair, the grief-laden baritone stumbled through the words of the Mother's song, his voice fading to silence in Sansa's pale ears.


	7. Epilogue

~ Epilogue ~

* * *

Pain was his ultimate and relentless companion for years, ridiculing his existence and the ruinous choices he had made. Squalls were the worst; his leg would ache so terribly that he deliberated having a maester take the whole thing off.

Rain pelted him in a sideways volley, permeating every layer he wore, but still he turned the earth. Deliberate and without haste, his errand came to an end. With little effort, he rammed the marker into the sopping ground, exhibiting this one's final resting place. Every name, no matter the letters, was hers.

And he knew it was wrong that a highborn lady should rest on the Quiet Isle instead of being laid low with her kin in the crypts of Winterfell, but he was himself; a dog who would not share his bones.


End file.
